The Royal Conquest(2)

He shuffled a foot, hoping to startle the young lady into abandoning whatever reckless plan she possessed. She froze, her head twisting toward where he stood in the dark. Mikhail held himself still, waiting for her move, waiting for feminine nerves to overtake her. After worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, she spun the horse toward the entrance and took off.

He smiled and moved in the shadows, careful to remain hidden in the event she turned around. Another crack of thunder and he glanced skyward. There was no doubt a storm was brewing. Was she familiar with the terrain, and did she know where the cottages were on the Calydon property? The storm clouds in the sky gathered, and he cursed himself for caring about a stranger.

Mikhail moved unhurriedly to the entrance. It was easy to make out her form under the banner of moonlight. She rode like a dream. Her laughter floated on the wind, and he hated to ruin her enjoyment, but he could not allow her to steal his stallion. He placed his fingers against his lips and let a sharp whistle rent the air, then cursed as a boom of thunder hid the signal that would have caused Sage to return to Mikhail despite her urgings. He quickly readied another horse. It was damn reckless of him to follow the female, even if she was a thief, but he felt compelled to pursue her.

“Allow me to follow the woman. I will return your prized stallion, Prince Alexander,” a low voice said to his left.

He glanced at Vladimir, Mikhail’s friend and constant shadow. “You forget my instructions. You will refer to me as Mikhail until I say otherwise.”

There was a pulse of silence and he could feel Vladimir’s disapproval, but Mikhail would not be swayed on this.

“You are not being yourself, you do not chase women, even if they are unusual and provocative, Mikhail.”

The last was uttered with grudging respect. And Mikhail would admit he was being a touch hasty, but it was a truth he was willing to ignore. “You will not follow me.”

“I will—”

At his pointed stare, Vladimir paused, executed a sharp bow, and melted into the darkness.

Mikhail launched himself onto one of Calydon’s stallions and surged from the stable.

He was chasing her.

Mayhap it could be that he’d allowed Calydon to goad him to drink brandy to test its potency against Mikhail’s vodka. The combination must have done something to his hard-won discipline, because the sharp interest that pierced him even now was unsettling. He was pursuing the unknown woman more for the desire to learn her identity than to recover his horse. His actions were so unlike him. He should be treading with caution; instead he was being reckless.

A blasted foolish thing to do.



Eagerness churned inside of Miss Payton Peppiwell, and a rare smile of peace tilted her lips. Cold filled her lungs as she inhaled the brisk air. She would ride the wind this morning. “Go, my beauty,” she crooned as she nudged the side of the massive stallion, encouraging him to move faster, reveling in the sheer power and grace of the animal.

After colliding with the Honorable Lord Jensen St. John earlier in the village, everything had been off-kilter. Payton had believed she’d forgiven him. But the surge of rage and pain she had felt at his renewed declarations stunned her.

I must not think of him.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she frowned. She hoped it would not rain. Riding was one of her joys in life, and she craved an outlet for all the emotions roiling through her, to feel the bunch and release of muscle between her thighs, the sheer power of the magnificent horse as they raced across the plains. That was why she had chosen one of the duke’s stallions to mount, and not one of his gentle mares young ladies were encouraged to ride.

She rose before the rest of the household, determined to be free for at least a few hours before fielding the demands of her mother and her aunt, the Countess of Merryweather, to find a rich and titled husband.

Payton would enjoy her early morning adventure, and she would not think of her family’s persistent pressure or Lord Jensen’s renewed sentiments. As if mocking her, his words crowded her mind.

I have been a blasted fool, Payton. Forgive me. I beseech you to marry me.

His offer no longer held any enticement. There was a time when she had longed for the social whirl of the society. Curious and intrigued by the power the haute monde held, she’d desperately wanted to be a part of their selective world. She had danced too close to the flames and she had been burned, jilted by a man she had believed adored her, as he’d ardently professed. His actions had turned society’s unpleasant and hurtful scorn in her direction. Her broken engagement had filled most of high society, if not all, with delight. An American miss who had dared to try and elevate herself with one of their beloved lords had been firmly reminded of her place.